


「dragon heart」

by ashforge



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Artoria is a bad lover, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/F, Incest, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 02:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13261671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashforge/pseuds/ashforge
Summary: an expression of artoria through her lovers.





	1. her foe

It was easy enough to separate the future king. Throw a skirt in front of Merlin and he chases. Give direction to Kay and he followed. In a hovel of a inn on the fringes of Hadrian’s Wall, where not even the most greedy of tax collectors bothered to scavenge, they left the future king to fend for herself. She was an adult by then, of course, more than capable of taking care of herself. In need of practical training that did not require her brother or mentor to hover about her shoulders.

Caliburn in hand, against the backdrop of a cold wet winter, Artoria traversed along the roads fighting bandits and monsters. Each morning, she would dress herself in armor and trousers, bundle up in layers of fur, and exit the village. Where she walked and where she fought, in the end, she would return back in the evening, steaming from exertion. It was her most vulnerable. For no one had any interest in attacking her before, and no one was the wiser to her scheming.

Morgan placed herself in the village once Kay had made his way home. It didn’t take much magic to make herself the daughter of a sickly man, recently widowed. No one made much question to it, her enchantment needing only be strong enough for average humans. Artoria didn’t notice her at first, lingering on the edges of her vision in the rotting tavern where she swallowed down bowl after bowl of hot tasteless gruel.

“I’ve never met a man quite as pretty as you,” Morgan put a hand against the thick furs on Artoria’s back. She didn’t bother to hide her appearance, as despite their many similarities, her sister had never seen her face before. Artoria looked over her shoulder, swallowing down whatever she had stuffed in her mouth.

“Oh, that’s because,” she trailed off, a bead of sweat on her cheek. This knight was young and foolish, filled with aspirations and courage. Inside her chest was the beating heart of a dragon, not yet awakened to her own strength. Her youthful appearance worked to her advantage. In armor and fur, she looked like a young man that was on his path to knighthood. Her cheeks were red to her ears. “My, um, mother. I’m quite youthful despite my age.”

Morgan could’ve laughed. She took a chair and brought it close against the knight, so that their legs brushed against each other. She saw Artoria’s eyes drop to the point of contact briefly. “I see, you must get quite a lot of attention from ladies.” Morgan did not allow herself to be as blatant. Caliburn sat at the opposite side of her, firmly in its sheathe. “Especially since I hear you’ve been dealing with our bandit problem.”

Nervously, Artoria took the mug of heated ale and gulped it down. She was tactless, unable to suppress her human side quite yet. In time, perhaps, but she was prime for Morgan’s attacks. Her hand brushed against Artoria’s leg, causing the knight to almost jump. “I’ve never had too much trouble with women,” her voice broke, showing off her feminine side more than she could’ve expected. “I’m Artor – ius.” She hesitated on her name. So slight that no one other than Morgan could perceive it.

“Morgause,” she introduced herself. A false name, but one very familiar to her. “Sir Artorius, I’m a widow and I’ve little left in this world except to care for my ailing father. In the evenings when you return from battle, could you spare some time to speak with me?”

A little pressure, there was no need for haste. She had all the time in the world to worm her way into her sister’s mind. Artoria remained flush, admiring the inside of her cup as she considered it. Morgan had to wonder what was in her mind – what things she was considering. Was she having a bout of uncanny intuition befitting the fabled king? Would she turn Morgan down after she had spent so much time planning this? There was a glitter in her eyes, like gemstones. Naivety and foolishness. “I suppose,” Artoria mumbled, shyly, “that wouldn’t be an issue.”

It took her a fortnight to reap the harvest she sowed. Making suggestion after suggestion, becoming overly friendly with her touch. Morgan had worried – briefly – that she had made the wrong attempt. That, perhaps, she should have presented herself as a man. That would’ve been typical of a woman, of course. Watching as the knight coyly battled with her better judgment, though, she knew she had made the right decision.

Morgan barely had to use magic. Just drawing out what was already there. Making her pliable. More susceptible to her baser urges. By the eighteenth day, Artoria pulled her tired body into the tavern and leaned into her cups. Morgan let her drink and stare at the fireplace for awhile, priming her mental state for the best attack. When she joined the knight, Artoria leaned against the table.

“I’m not who you think I am,” she said quietly, softly. “I wouldn’t make a good replacement for your husband.”

The innuendo had been clearly understood it seemed. Morgan touched Artoria’s face, so soft and lovely, even bruised. The more she was around her sister, the more her hate grew. It bubbled in her gut like a curse. She hated the gentleness she had. She hated the beauty she had. She hated the genuine way she looked at Morgan. Fearing that would spill from her like vomit, she hesitated.

“Are you worried, my lord?” She asked and leaned in very close, “I know you’re a woman.”

The future king visibly flinched. Had it been anyone else, her identity would’ve been safe. She fooled everyone. She didn’t need to worry. Yet, knowing that Morgan wanted her, she knew it would not be kept beneath her clothes. Artoria fumbled, grasping her drink to drown herself a little more. Fear that things would fall through prickled at Morgan’s neck, but finally, Artoria looked at her.

“Then why…?” She was frustrated, conflicted with her feelings of lust and her own confusion. It was unthinkable for a woman to embrace another woman. Yet, Morgan could see, that was Artoria’s interest. She furrowed her brow and stared at her cup as if it were the cause of her problems. “I cannot give you what a man has.”

Morgan pressed. Closer, until the alcohol on Artoria’s breath tickled her lips. No one in the tavern was looking, no one would remember. That was how she planned it. “I told you before, didn’t I? That he was so drunk that he rutted a pillow on our wedding night.” Her hand rested on Artoria’s thigh, brushing her fingers on the inside. “He never touched me once after that, and died to some Saxon. A man’s touch? I wouldn’t know it.”

Dizzy from alcohol and Morgan’s gentle persuasion, Artoria swallowed and glanced down at the hand. Her expression was so easy to read, it was like reading a book. Morgan could say anything now, and Artoria would listen. Her hand lingered on the clasp of Artoria’s cloak. “Lord, please. As I am now, I shall be lucky to find a decent husband.” Her fingers toyed with it, drawing Artoria’s eyes downwards. “Please, if only for one night.”

More so than ever, Morgan knew she hated Artoria. The way the knight took her hand and led Morgan to her room. The way she hesitantly but earnestly kissed her. How her lips were rough and chapped, yet tasted so very sweet. Her sloppy, inexperienced kiss sent shivers of pleasure down Morgan’s spine. She tasted of alcohol and iron, that the wound on her lips from battling earlier opened just enough.

The clasp holding Artoria’s cloak was opened, and the furs fell to the floor in a bundle. Unceremoniously, her armor followed in dull thuds. Beneath it all, Morgan found her detestably beautiful. Her body was hard and muscular, befitting a professional warrior, but remarkably feminine. The size of her shoulders, the slope of her hips. She hated her because she was so desirable. Morgan’s hands touched every inch of her.

“At least this body is not terribly woman-like,” Artoria said in an apologetic tone. In her mind, she was still a stand in for someone. Morgan shushed her lips with a kiss, stripping her body of the shirt and trousers that kept their skin from touching.

An unlikable part of her mind marveled at the likeness between them. The color of their skin, to the shape of their shoulders. Their eyes, and hair. Yet one day, Morgan would not look like that and Artoria would. But now – they were sisters. Artoria’s hands sought after Morgan’s breasts, squeezing and teasing them blindly. Neither of them knew how to do this. But Artoria had heard enough to guess.

“You’re beautiful,” Artoria whispered, pinning Morgan to the bed. Her hand sank between Morgan’s legs, cautiously brushing against her mound. Her hands were rough and calloused, a swordsman’s hands. She was never meant to touch something so delicate, but she was. Morgan hated her, and hated wanting her more. “I have only done this to myself, so please…”

Her lips were spread and Artoria’s rough fingers slid against her folds. Morgan jolts and swallowed her disgust because she loved how it felt. To be toyed with and worshiped, she unintentionally held her breath to avoid shaming herself with moans. She wanted it so badly that she had lost focus for just a moment. Artoria’s fingers were messy, uncoordinated, unpracticed, but Morgan would never forget how it felt.

As she lingered on the cusp of orgasm, she felt her hips lifted. “You,” Morgan tried to argue. Artoria buried her tongue against her cunt before she had the chance to get any further. Her entire body trembled, unprepared for the sensation. Worked so closely to the edge, even a fumbling beginner would set Morgan off. The breath she had been holding loosed, and raucous moans slipped through her throat.

Through half open eyes, she watched the knight lap and suck at her. Her whole being was sexual and magnetic. Morgan wriggled, Artoria’s tongue peeking through her entrance. She squeezed upon the tip of her tongue, moaned and clawed at the sheets. The knight hummed appreciatively, drawing shapes with her tongue. The light vibration of her voice made Morgan shudder, and come.

Her body sang, and hungrily, Morgan sought to lick every ounce of her sex on Artoria’s face. Kissing and lapping at her lips, the witch sank her hands between Artoria’s legs in kind. She was hot and wet – Artoria sighed trembling breaths on her shoulder. Her sister’s slender body collapsed on her, her hips rising and falling against Morgan’s clumsy fingers.

Morgan hated how beautiful she looked, clinging to her body and desperate for release. She hated how Artoria looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. Panting and sighing, her expression was hot and bleary. Morgan wanted to keep it for herself, kissing her lips to silence the knight.

As she grew ever closer to that point of climax, the light faded from her eyes. Morgan drank Artoria’s mana through her fingertips – a feat that wouldn’t be possible if her beating heart had been realized. But now, foolish and young, the dragon inside her would not prevent Morgan’s plans. Dizzier and dizzier, Artoria whined and moaned, curling her nails onto Morgan’s back and shoulders.

“I-I l-luh,” the knight struggled to speak, but Morgan stopped her. Silencing her with a kiss, the witch could not bear to hear the words. Not like this, not with the way she was looking at her.

Whimpering against Morgan’s lips, Artoria came against her fingers. Her hips twitched and trembled before sinking downwards. Each pulse of pleasure drained Artoria’s body more and more before her weight fully dropped onto Morgan. She shifted, watching the knight’s eyes fade just enough before closing. It was a temporary sleep, one that would be quickly fixed with the speed at which Artoria generated mana, but long enough for Morgan to do what she needed.

Crawling out from beneath Artoria, Morgan swung her legs over the side of the bed before being caught. Surprise and something akin to fear shot through her, looking to the source of the problem. The knight had locked her wrist in her hand, almost demanding that she stay with her until she woke.

Morgan hated her.

She hated that, in this moment, she would never forget the feeling of regret she held pulling her hand away. The way Artoria, in her mana deprived slumber, still groped for her warmth. She hated that she would never feel as full and complete as that moment again. She took Caliburn, set aside the bedframe, and left.


	2. and her queen

Guinevere had truly loved Artoria.

Even if it was because she had to, she did. They were married soon after Artoria had drawn the sword from the stone, before Camelot had even been built. In that time, there was so much going on in the kingdoms. So much that Artoria had to shoulder. Guinevere saw more of her back than her face, walking away from their castle with sword in hand. She fought and she warred – there were times where she would not return to Guinevere for months at a time.

She had nothing to fear. Anytime Artoria set foot on the field, victory was promised to follow. There would never be a battle her king could not win so long as that sword remained in her palm. But that didn’t mean that the wait between each time felt longer and longer. She had truly loved Artoria, after all. When she returned to the castle, victorious, her heart would swell and she would be awash with pride. Because even if Artoria didn’t look at her, she loved her.

Always, she would return home. She would feast and watch. Listen to everything that had happened in her absence. As if she never could breathe or think without wearing the weight of Britain on her shoulders. At that time, they still shared a room. They shared a bed. Artoria, tired and unbeaten, would undress and lie beside her. She stared at Guinevere with half open eyes, and those were the times that Guinevere felt love. Those short moments where the last thing her king wanted to see before sleep was her. Her rough hand would cup Guinevere’s cheek and she’d do something that was almost a smile.

She had said once that to be a king was to be inhuman. To give up everything inside themselves to become a monster that could only fight and judge. Emotions were a liability – that if she got herself tangled in something emotionally, she could not do her job. She had given it up. She had become a dragon to protect Britain. Guinevere knew this. Artoria had never been secretive about that. Yet it hurt, regardless, to be looked at so many times yet almost never seen.

When her king returned home, she returned victorious as always. But it wasn’t pleasant. Artoria’s body was riddled with wounds and dirt. She had been thrust into the mud and scratched at her foes. But she always won. For the first time, terror struck in Guinevere’s heart. Even if she was alive now, even if she had won, would those wounds be her last? It was unlike her, she knew, but her hands shook and she touched Artoria willfully.

Surprise stirred in all in attendance. It shouldn’t be unusual for a wife to touch her husband, but to them, it must have been. In the time they had been married, it had been cordial, formal, clean and precise. Nothing extravagant, nothing romantic. They were married, and perfect. But Guinevere’s gloves stained with the mud and blood on Artoria’s hands. “You’ve returned,” she said with bated breath. She always greeted her king, but her voice cracked.

Tired, so very tired, Artoria offered her a modest smile for the first time. “I’ve returned.”

Servants stoked the fires beneath the Roman bath as Guinevere undressed her king. Behind the walls of the castle, away from prying eyes, she could do something so bold. Artoria didn’t argue, sitting patiently as Guinevere unbuckled each piece from her body and set it aside. They didn’t talk, or even look at each other. Yet still – she didn’t shy away.

Artoria’s body had only gotten more muscular since they were married. Otherwise, nothing at all changed. Her face did not change, her height did not change. Her voice did not change. She was still the same as she was when she touched the Sword of Selection. This was something Guinevere knew and understood. She hadn’t the time to grow bothered by it, not now at least. Instead, it stirred a feeling in her chest. A nostalgia, maybe, for their wedding.

With her hair undone, Artoria’s cool expression fixed on her. “You’re more frantic than usual.” She said, the tone indiscernible. Perhaps it was concern far enough down, but Artoria struggled to express emotions even when she wanted to. This was something Guinevere knew.

“I must be unwell,” Guinevere admitted, urging Artoria to her feet and drawing her to the bath. Walking backwards, fully dressed, the queen felt her dress billow in the water as Artoria followed her. “But you return home looking like this, I can’t look away from you.”

The dirt and blood on Artoria’s body tainted the water with each step, but she followed obediently to Guinevere’s urging. “You will ruin that dress,” she said tilting her head to the side, acknowledging her queen’s reasoning soundlessly. She separated a single hand to touch the white gown. Her touch was gentle, so much so that Guinevere’s heart nearly burst.

She brought her hand to her shoulder and ripped the sleeve off of her. She saw the draw of shock in Artoria’s expression, and Guinevere laughed humorlessly. Dipping the cloth in the hot water and wringing it tightly, she brought it to Artoria’s face. “More clothing can be made and obtained, but I cannot do that with you,” she replied, slowly wiping the blood and grit from Artoria’s face.

Slowly, Artoria’s hand clasped over her own. Her king’s expression eased so much that she almost looked human. Calmly, purposefully, Artoria leaned in and kissed her.

They were not a romantic couple. They did not do things that lovers did. The last time they kissed was on their wedding day, and it was for symbolism only. It was the first time they kissed for themselves. Artoria pressed her weight into her, urging Guinevere’s mouth open enough to slip her tongue in. Shocks shot up the queens spine, and the bundle of fabric slid from her fingers as she clung to.

There was never a need to do this. Never a want, really, Guinevere was still ignorant on the details of it all. Artoria pressed her forehead against her queens and looked into her eyes. They were still so empty that Guinevere might cry, but she wanted her king all the same. Her arms wrapped around Artoria’s body tightly, and she sank backwards until she was sitting in the bath.

“You would embrace me here?” She was red faced, embarrassed, feeling Artoria’s lips seek out the crook of her neck. “For the first time, in the baths?”

Beneath the surface of the water, Artoria’s hands traced her body. Through the wet fabric of her dress, it felt even more mysterious. Guinevere’s breath hitched as her king touched the curve of her rear. A steady drum of arousal began to beat between her legs, and while she knew of how to please a man, she knew little about a woman’s body. There was nothing whispered between maids when she was a child, no dim explanation by her mother.

“No?” Artoria asked, pulling back enough so that Guinevere could see her face. A trickle of fear set in her stomach, as if questioning things now would make Artoria turn back to stone. Her king’s face was flush, a little sweaty but otherwise clean. Magic had already faded the wounds on her upper body.

With gentle force, Artoria bundled the front of her queen’s dress in her hands, and tore it. Guinevere sucked in a breath in surprise, not used to seeing her husband using force outside of combat. All the while, her green eyes remained trained on her, a far off heat to them that made Guinevere feel self conscious and urgent. The newly formed tear rose to her hips and her hands touched Artoria’s.

She should not have been surprised that the king stopped, but she was. Artoria blinked, “No?” she repeated calmly.

Guinevere pulled her hands back and closed her eyes. She loved Artoria so much. In her head, she never thought to make it physical. But in her flesh and blood, she had realized that she wanted it. “Please, touch me,” Guinevere said softly, drawing her body to the edge of the bath. With permission, Artoria continued until the tear split the dress down the center.

Her hands brushed against the length of Guinevere’s body, from her small clothes to her breasts. The queen swallowed her breath, trying to avoid making noise as her king touched her. Artoria’s hands were small but strong, applying pressure in precisely the right places. “I’ve neglected you,” Artoria said, and kissed Guinevere’s stomach to trace a line up her sternum. “A king cannot be like this.”

Unable to control her voice any longer, Guinevere whined as Artoria’s teeth pinched the skin of her breasts. Restless, the queen grasped at Artoria’s hair, trying and failing to make her go faster. Instead, the blonde focused on licking and sucking on her chest – switching between each breast with a drunken fervor. Her teeth sank down, claiming her with bites and bruises that were unbecoming of a woman, yet Guinevere felt pride. Seeing her Artoria lost in lust was something she would never see again.

“Allow me,” Finally, Artoria’s body drifted lower towards the center of Guinevere’s desire. “Allow me to take advantage of you.”

There was a complete disconnect between them. That Guinevere had loved her so fully, yet would never be seen. That Artoria, deep down, wanted to be loved but would never grasp it. She knew that in time, they would both be hurt by their missing connections. She would never be loved back, and Artoria would always feel empty. The king stripped her of her small clothes, setting the damp material on the side of the bath.

When Artoria’s tongue brushed against her slit, Guinevere nearly shouted. Of all the things she could have possibly conceived doing, putting ones mouth there was not one of them. She wanted to argue, that it was inappropriate and dirty, she quickly lost the strength. The flat of Artoria’s tongue opened her, and the tip teased her. It was hot and intimate. Guinevere arched her back, crying softly in pleasure as her king licked her most sensitive spot.

She clasped her hands over her mouth, trying to stifle the inelegant noises leaving her. Gasping and sighing into her fingers, Guinevere tensed her entire body. It was too much to be desired like this. Too much that her king devoured her body, controlling the surges of pleasure like she was a toy on a string. Tears had long since stung her eyes, and she stared at Artoria’s face – burning with lust.

Her body was hot with need. What she was waiting for, searching for, she wasn’t so sure. Guinevere admired Artoria through half opened eyes, and she reached her hand out. If only the king reached back to her, perhaps things would’ve been different. Her body shook, overwhelmed by her orgasm that her hand fell to her side. Tears still flowed freely from her eyes, less passion and more desperation.

The king only ever saw what was immediately in front of her. She gently took Guinevere back into the water and rinsed her head. The tears were washed away, but her eyes were swollen and red. Artoria could not see the reasons or the meanings. Her thumb brushed against her queens cheek. To her, she was continuing to be cruel. A king that could not love taking advantage of a woman who never had a choice.

Guinevere leaned against Artoria’s chest and vowed not to cry for her again.


End file.
